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Arianna Darshani Sep 2015
I'm here to spread the news that.
Despite its bad reputation with people
Back surgery works like a charm.

When I was 23, I injured my back lifting weights
I began to have chronic back pain
I researched what was the best thing for back pain
And yoga came to the top

At age 28, I began 8 years of yoga
That I practiced every day
My back pain was reduced until my age of 35

When yoga eventually failed
I moved in to physical therapy
That worked into my late 40s

I was rear ended in a car accident,
With the car entirely totaled.

That was the beginning of the end.

Nothing "alternative" worked anymore
I felt like there were razorblades in my groin

I would fall for no apparent reason
And then could not stand back up
I went to my doctor about it
He said if I got a MRI, that surgery would be the next step
Since surgery has such a bad reputation
I skipped the MRI

I was riding horses at the time
One day, I went to get a horse in the pasture
I kept falling and could not stand
I thought it was due to the mud.
I had to crawl through the mud and horse ****
To get back to the barn.

I thought once I was on concrete
That I could stand
But I couldn't
The stable manager helped me
To the office.
I rested for half and hour
And then drove home.

We were watching TV
In our downstairs family room
I went to go upstairs
And in the middle of the stairs
My legs stopped working

We drove to the ER
I had an emergency MRI
It showed that my disc was entirely extruded
And surrounding my spinal cord.

I went for emergency back surgery.
The procedure was called a microdiscectomy
They just took the gel
Away from my spinal cord
And within 2 hours of surgery
I could walk again.
I noted how easy it was to walk.

After a few weeks of just weird stuff
Like lightning bolts down my legs,
My back entirely healed Within 6 weeks
And that was the end of 27 years
Of back pain.

I often tell young people that
I had an extruded disc that
Was older than they are!!

It's been 5 years now and my back is cured.
If back surgery did not have
Such a bad reputation,
I could have saved myself a lot of pain

Microdiscectomy has a 95% cure for referred pain
In my case, it had a 30% cure rate for back pain
I am in the lucky 30%

Back surgery does work
And every year
There are more advances.

I went to my surgeon
And gave him a present
And a big hug of thanks.

Spread the word!
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
zebra Mar 2019
the red light of sin illuminated her ankles
she, a thousand frisky demons
comfort me
as i yield blood eyes
for switch blade kisses
that push through retinas glass aperture

dark girl with a penchant for hideous pleasures
*** crimes like blatting pistons
her mothers womb twisted with regret
as i live in her hell ****** stare
******* talons that pierce ******
like diaphanous ribbons

her **** floating angels
and feet sweeten my face
in subduing rituals
of hard knocks
getting her mood up
for blowing **** loops

my nose; her **** soaked door ****
her ******; a squeeze hustle
innocent fig strained
mix meistering patterns
of extruded clay;
a pomade of raised bumpy torpedo's
fingers to *****
***** to fingers

i run to her
like bones of air
and she teaches me
in the blood of pandemonium
to make ice in hell
I will not renounce my subjectivity in favor of a sealed objectivity
Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 2022
Black valley—
a sheath of dark attar
under the fullest moon. I find so beautiful
in it’s darkening as my spirit’s rind.
Extruded by a forceful wind call,—
hoping to run into that, solely being innocence.
But is it black; liken to a colour that seems so
unclean? Washing bare hands twice; but I can’t wash what I am.

A dark masterpiece,—pretty as many flowers I am,
I am this dark flower. I shine brightest in the dark.
Natalie Jan 2018
Gaping mouths grow from the craters etched
Into the plaster walls.
The bulbs in the ceiling sockets flicker and grow soft
And softer still,
Until I cannot be sure of whether
Or not
I am really here at all.

Honey,
Bloodwood sap,
And sweet orange marmalade flow
From the cracks, ooze
From the lips with murmurs,
And mingle with the air,
Coloring the low glow in such a way
That as I lay my eyes upon myself,
I do not see my flesh,
My hands
My feet.

Rather,
There upon my lap lies a form
Sculpted from the dead weight
Of terracotta clay,
Pushed, pulled, molded, pressed
Extruded through a die
By some unseen, unnatural force,
And set inelegantly on display.

In this moment,
I try to claim it as my own--
To move it in some way that feels natural, real
Or complete.
And yet,
To strain against this heaviness--
To splutter and wheeze
As the murmuring tide of warmth rolls in
Is to be swept up and drowned
In the undercurrent
Of my own mind.

Thus, I will float, just so,
And the walls,
With their dribbling mouths
Will seep sticky-sweet whispers
Into my hair.
A bail easily made her
abase and extruded her there extremely adhered to hurl her more
when she openly was scoffing only
to vale her cry which defied throbbing

with wind in her hair
what allure was fair now blue as it wither season in waters soon dawn her tear with scolding moon turned into frost
a scarf lined jacket that drift to stone
fore midnight clear rose twinkle in her eyes
Angler in stream till moon
Connor Smith Nov 2012
Time so fleetingly chastises the womb
Wherein all life's illusions swoon.
Embezzled like spring's petaled earthen love
The art form's swallowed once famine's begun.
 
Extruded through shapes devoid of angles
No more will the process be found to dangle
Above heads of ravenous vultures. Now
The swine submits before the sow.
 
Who now does this frame become,
when all the insides and colors run?
How did once this child breathe, 
Before smooth skin had turned to leaves?
 
In all the time it took to capture
The memories here, and there after
Sunrise form and Sunset break,
Years elongate by Eternity’s wake.
The boy, shaking with excitement, nervously bangled the key into the tiny obscuration, just as he sank it deep in the purse and twisted it began to give as if to break and he stopped. The wretched key would not turn no matter which way he fumbled it into the opening trying. He, puzzled, sat back on his haunches and squeezing his countenance…carefully, slowly, measured in his way, he slid it in without a waver and sank it into place. A foul wind blowed and forced his cough but with it came the flutes…and just then, as if by magic, a voice so resolute;

“Heaven’s treasure cannot be seen or known except in heart’s desires,”

“And certainly never be known by a farmer-boy or filth-trodden squires!”

“For ancient sealing of box so great withheld Pandora’s fires!”

“…but listen closely for a truth is hidden in conundrum,”

The little boy gleamed with excitement as he dropped on his hands placing his ear to the keyhole whence the fluting and cherubic voice extruded…though nothing came forth? Try as he might, the key again and again, there was nothing more to the magic of the box. Though he was sure that in this box a treasure was to be found, in all his days, the many numbered, never did resound, never did the voice again give instruction to propound, never did it give again to magic thus profound and never did he figure out, the mystery which did confound!

  To wit the newest little boy said;

“But grandpa how does the story end then?”

  Without haste he replied to the child;

“Never want-for, nor ask, nor seek out, all the paths of heaven’s fortunes,”

“Never covet sacred knowledge or doubt the god’s contortions,”

“Forever all will be as well as good as you can be, if you can be a richer man when giving other's portions…”

  With that said the old farmer died. His daughter and the child’s mother, tears streaming down her flustered cheeks, grabbed him up and began to say a prayer for her dead father while unbeknownst to the family; a troupe in their employ had been employed by someone else and that someone was waiting for a signal. At the moment of the man’s passing the horse-hand ran from the sprawling estate to a well at the fork in the dirt road leading to the local town. There sat a traditional well and bucket with a large copper bell at the top and he rang it with a fervent vigor. The black horses in the thickets past the field bellicosely retorted as they were whipped into an action. Then along came the banker’s chariot, filled with three men in black, riding quickly to the manor’s door;

-judge, pastor, banker.

  Storming into the home the pastor ran to comfort them and strutting-forth, so the banker and his judge in stride comportment too. Slight his pause and nary couth the banker announced his judge and from his handbag produced a document, an unwieldy scroll of parchment…

“Alas my dear and sorrowful child be happy for this great farm! Your inheritance is more than most and do not be alarmed! For we have come upon the courts with documented trust, read this here then sign away to keep the farm you must! For all you see and gathered to you, bought upon agreement, that on thick trunk with gleaming content be exchanged to me for deed it seem-med!”

  Shocked, the woman protested;

“Never nay, what’s this you say? The box his greatest treasure…he would not have done, no this cannot be, sold it without inform me and in measure, for he hath had this since a boy of youth collecting wood in winter’s cold displeasure?”

  The judge stepped forth to conclude the matter and gave her some, though curt, respite;

“Now, now dear we feel your loss but see these lines and see these costs? Chickens, horses, sheep, a wagon, seeds and stock and land, a home, -the lumber, nails, the roof of stone? O’er the years buying more and more, whilst only for once to settle this score, upon release here is your deed, give us the box for which you have no need, this is not a matter of one man’s greed for it says in payment here and here, collateral, that box was dear!”

  In came the horse-hand with axe and fury, chopping apart the bedroom floor, -and in such a hurry, the four they cooed and sighed aloud, as a gleaming treasure chest appeared before the crowd, dropping all the four to knee as banker cried his rapacious glee;

“All these long years did I thus wait and now will find the heaven’s gate! Load it men, the treasure ours, the moon and sun, the awesome stars, the untold secrets of millennia past, we are rich as all the ancient Kings at last!”

Before they left he turned to her and proudly presented his palm extended;

“The key there deary…”

She begrudgingly removed the necklace about her neck and handed it over…after the men had left her little boy said;

“Don’t cry mom and don’t worried, boy have I got to tell you a story!”

The End of the Golden Key
My version of the Golden Key WITH ending.
Westbow Oct 2013
Brambles, brambles
My ramble ignored
In favor of the sharp
Quick delivery

Tight and bound nicely
The sophisticated stink
Rising from your taste
In European leather

Love, love, love
Look my way and offer
Your morning smile
That early lust

Like the time I kissed you
With the shadows of the leaves
Cast against the wall
Extruded by the sun
Bruce Mackintosh Dec 2012
Courtesy of the 
efforts 
of the brain’s
nightmare
software
I’m extruded
onto the path
leading to
Mister Coffee
via the bathroom
hoping that
the quality of the
aborning day
matches that of
the imminent
cinnamon
oatmeal
Dee Renee Smith Nov 2012
I’ve been bleeding
black and blue bubbles
through extruded cartridges.
Leaving doilies soiled
on your dressed tables
without placing a touch.
Trying to donate gifts
from my darkening life
to a priceless recipient.
Pushing your peace away
with each bubble blown
onto ink-smeared surfaces.
My mental misfires
cause my life line
to tangle and retreat.
I’ve tormented my threshold
with a shattered appendage
that over extended its reach.
As I twist tourniquets,
I represent one unconditioned
for appreciating being love in truth.
Please, reset my uneven mending
and apply an encouraged healing
by molding me in wrappings of you.
- From InterPositioned
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
****, preferable,
but not necessary.

place your hands upon thy thighs,
the thumbs extended,
left to rest,
to fit in the designed, purposed crevice
between the upper torso,
where the soft belly
meets the legs.

your opposable thumbs,
too short to reach
your private part,
instead, your four fingers
to thrum, to drum,
driven by frustrated compulsion,
beat out upon thy exterior
the internal feel,
a basic rhythm.

the arms,
hard by,
press tight into the chest,  
the birth place of poems,
and squeeze,
as if it were a
Heinz Ketchup bottle.

the tapping fingerlings,
the now drifting yet compulsed mind,
the hard-sided pressure,
voila, words form,
heat-furnaced,
energized from within,
all at once will be extruded from
a poem's birth canal,
the heart.
before attempting this, have paper and pen and tissues nearby,
in case you start to
weep.
Nigel Morgan Jan 2016
a presence here nearly palpable
where the always carefully accurate hand
has arranged this accidental meeting
of stilled nature
of fused extruded sand

the shadows oh the shadows
oblique shading of refracted light
imprint almost of seed heads’
satellites exploding towards
a once sun
a past sight

the rough shading of the wooden shelf
the slight join of the papered wall
the gathered impurities
of dust against the edge of shelf
and wall a desolation
brim full of loneliness
hard to fathom here its depth
so very very hard to bare . . .
and those final words rising
out of this morning’s tenderness
and a naked self
of shadows oh its shadows
https://www.instagram.com/p/BAXVWX_qtGb/?taken-by=alicefoxartist
c quirino Nov 2011
it sits somewhere inside a cave,
unseen from street level
deep within it,
parallel to dormant husks of former beasts.
accessible only through divinity’s eye.

climb down,
feet unseen in each step.
but you’ll still feel them there
kicking against earthen layers
they’ll crumble under foot.
don’t worry, though.
it stays in place

rope to take you there,
to here

left fingers violin trembling,
it sounds even better down here, doesn’t it?

slip
bounce organic against the earth walls,
and tumble, foot over brow
over eye,
crash land sweetly
so the breath escapes
extruded through your chest
through your lips

eyes unfocused
though fixed on the pin needle light you climbed through

you wake.
hair in your vision,
like cracks on the windshield,
like vines and branches
when viewed upward,
they’re pressed tightly
to the warm ***** of sky.

they belong there.
maybe you think you do, too.

so get up.
take someone’s hand

and walk
gelatin-leg up the stairs
possibly breathless, into the street.
betterdays Jun 2014
red pen in hand....
i critique people's thoughts
and dreams

six years at university,
to become a god....
who moulds minds
and delivers future prophecies, ready for unwrapping.

who creates bell curves,
of fail to high distinctions.

that the undergrads,
follow like dancing, pavlovian dogs...

the posts...have slipped
the leash and ...
leave thoughtful piles of...extruded work, in the academic yard.

six years at uni...as a dog
nine years at uni ...as a god.

it is amazing,
how the garnering
of parchments
and strange hats,
can transpose a person's world.
i have marked 67 essays over the past two nights
and have 85 left to do....
3000words roughly a go....
on ritual and theatre
excuse me for not writing
muchat present...i am a bit
worded out.
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
systems of all kinds collapse and crumble
under the stress of painjoy fumbling
at the seams of life.

take time to feel fear
in a world conquered by the mighty
for their power is extruded from within false walls
that are thick skinned and faulty
to the touch. One push
and the system they so delicately carved
around themselves in citadels of falsehood
will also collapse
if one small ***** lets the light into this
thick darkness.

Look around you
at the gravy trains that roared on one way
tracks to destruction in quarters
of the world
where blood built empires
let lose vampires  to ****
the energy of life
but succumbed themselves
to the same blood bank. The system
closed in and choked them off
even as they struggled to stay afloat
in the approaching maelstrom.

all will perish
in the system
where greed is gilded in gold
temples of power.The Middle East
will become fertile by the black gold on the outside
and the crushed bones of the inside

History has a long list of such
flimsy empires
with terracotta temperaments
and hieroglyphic heros
Bryan Oct 2017
The man I met, short of height
was lightly built, with pale skin.
He was covered in dripping sores
As if to vent the ill within.
He was decayed to the core;
it had worn his frame thin.
"Hello, my friend," his mouth extruded,
Saliva flowed upon his chin.
"I have no want," I replied,
"For a beast so full of sin,
that his body has surely died,
long before him."
His brutish face contorted
and he looked as if chagrined.
"Don't let your eyes deceive you,
I believe you won't again,
once you've tasted of the power
Of Rumpelstiltskin."
At this, I knew for sure,
If I fought, I would not win,
So I listened, and I thought,
That I felt frost upon the wind.
betterdays Jan 2018
small upon the wire
extruded with such effort
she swings with the wind
capturing her  stability against
the verdent green, once secure
she again  launches, like a spelunker
down into the darkness of the bush
only to reappear and leap from leaf to leaf

having constructed her main lines
the little architect, then proceeded
with absolutley no fanfare
but an audience of two,
enthralled by her
bravado and industry,
to fill out the infield of the  construct

before setting some fishing lines out
off her main points,  to sway in the breeze
she  then  strolled  back into her leafy boudoir,
one presumes to have a well earned nap,
before dinner
my son and i spent over an hour watching a  largish spider, spin her web today in our garden....absolutely facsinating
Lawrence Hall Jun 2019
No writer ever seems to exhaust the ink
That oozes from extruded plastic tubes
Made by machines and chemicals that stink
The crowded banks of the fetid Huangpu

Cheap plastic pens are given, shared, and sold,
Tapped and gnawed, pocketed, stolen, lent, and lost
Drying and dying after they grow old
Misplaced, mislaid, decayed, but seldom tossed

A ballpoint helps us with our thoughts to think
But no one ever seems to exhaust the ink
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2022
Fickle the temperament
Fickle the change
In the far South land
Where wild West winds rage.
One minute quiescence
The next falling snow
Then hot melting asphalt
Burning toes as you go.
Fickle the changes
Best that you plan
For four seasons per day
As well as you can.

Easterly is blowing hard
Raking over land
Flattening the Western waves
As only East wind can,
Shoreline denuded
Black rock exposed
Sea foam extruded
On windlanes, imposed.
Kinda feels unnatural,
Kinda feels unreal,
Suspect the **** solstice
Encroaches to steal.

Late sun’s reflection
Mirrored off sea
From elevated viewpoint’s
Glare blinding me
Brass hard refraction
Now blacking out light
Reminded lock chickens
Securely for night.
For East turns to South East
Surmounting to gale,
Destruction of forestry’s
Shredding with hail.

Such are the ways
Of this far South land
Where climatic moods
Impose, as they can.
Where the flavors extreme
Sweep enticement aside
As the promise of youth
Swops a hag for a bride.
Such are the ways
Of this ****** South land
Where you savor each moment
Indeed, whilst you can.

M.
11 August 2022
Mid winter New Zealand.
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
The star's burn until they nova,
after hot brilliance for billions of years.
Minutes matter little in the cosmos,
particularly in the beginning.

The expanding egg-shaped universe
is actually an illusion, a hologram,
in two dimensions, projected.
Is it simply a construct of an alien brain?

Black holes destroy everything,
or do they?
Does life in some other iteration,
get extruded into another dimension?

Huge amounts of emptiness,
occupied by dark matter,
fill the void between.
Gravity occasionally destroys due to encroachment.

The clock ticks down from the big bang,
is there an end? Will it all reverse?
Will there be a giant collapse?
Only time and space will tell
Bryant Aug 2018
I am suspended with grief
Wrought beaten
Placed about the coals
Endothermic crimson coalescence

Ferrous singularity
Tempered ingots impervious
An extension of god's arm
Sledging **** showers
Compacting crash lashings
Descalling with cold fire

Not shaped but contorted
Deep sloping concavities
Who's smooth walls actuate with convections
Apexes so thin
Whipping winds would make holes of them

Quench after quench
No closer a semblance

Extruded from the stone
Womb like enclosure

My last suitable home
Surrounded by my piers

Eeking a creep
Seeping into a mold
Ardently effervescent with aptitude smoldering
Akin to the gorgeous and gaudy
Gold, diamond, and pearl
All are flawed in the raw

A perforated structure
Riddled with gaseous pockets of base desires
Rendering a slugs mass
Insignificant as deadly
Miniscule as harmful

Eliciting a bold reenactment

A raven haired imp
Rebellious heralding divine
Angelic crown
Ringlets of white and blue
Peeking fontanel
Adorned with a rose colored center

Breathlessly pleading for impact
Contact
Of any sort
The instant where you feel the most alive
Ironically, you unwittingly find.......

You never were
Sia Morweng Jul 2020
Forget me I'm only reminiscing
I've heard revisits bestow wisdom, expectation excluded
I saw Teddy left out of our room
He'd comforted me late nights
Barbie was all beauty, make-up and hair perfected
But Teddy, you remember how I clung to him?
I hadn't heard the meaning behind mama's words
You should see me now, pregnant with scars
Dear Innocence
I admit your cocoon's absence is felt
My hands were on my ears in the dark
My knees drawn to my bare chest
Rocking back and forth, back and forth
Mama was lost, her consolation only money
Truthfully
You left without warning
You took me with you
And I'm grateful for that care, that me had been virginally worldly
My dear Innocence
I'm writing to tell you of the changes
My old bed squeals now, as of the rats
Like my oldest pet, troublemaker
He'd been true from the beginning
To your eyes it might sound pungent
Evolving they said was special
I swear I was blindly being extruded
But dear Innocence
A whole in my heart settled
An angry cloud preparing for apocalypse
Your light's leftover not shimmering
All is no longer, no longer
Dearest Innocence
Once upon a time...
On my way to the car
I glanced at the sage’s leaves laden
on what had been ground dried
by two dreary desiccated months
of a blustery autumn
aching for the  moisture of winter.

This rainy cold night
seemed to be saying don’t go out
but there was something
that beckoned me beyond the warmth.

Wet streets magnify the lights
dancing on the pavement
as if to deny the darkness a victory
******* up the day’s grim mood
into a mass of grass and mud extruded
by the slow mushy pace of my boots.

The changing seasons
have the mysterious mission
of rustling us
out of our fatigue or ennui
hanging mosslike on our battered psyches.

Maybe the seasonal shift was that beckoning
into the rainy night
to transform me by its cavorting light
to come here and write  
on these pages rich
in dreams, imagining, and flight.
I was cavorting a bit with this piece, letting my imagination shift here and there, defying the rules of good grammar. But maybe that is ok in this season of transition and challenge.
Alex McQuate Jan 2023
Thundering onward like a runaway train,
Chugging forward with a cavalcade of machine gun- rapid jolts,
Driving the story forward with irreversible force,
Carrying the message with irrevocable determination.

A parallel path does not make it the same,
For effort is still the cost of progress,
And blood shed must still be extruded as a price in these endeavors.

Fired from that ultrasonic cannon of life,
Flying through that azure sky,
Ripping holes through cotton ball clouds when flying through,
Thrusting forward into that blue unknown.
Seven Nielsen Sep 2021
Wishes
suspended
in a filmy lacquer
like a child's secret utterance
set
  in
       invisible
                  liquid-hope
                         ­        based on nothing at all
are like blemishes in an otherwise perfect diamond

How, in a lugubrious world
     hanging
     by
     a
     single
     extruded
     wire
     of
     tenuous
     mercy
can there be
mines beneath shallow graves
dug by slaves with bloodied fingers
and frightening visions
of those thousand-foot-deep-burial-wells
clawed into the forehead of the world
     in fake-searching
              of a new
                        and magic
                                        element
           ­                                         to brag-mix
into toothpaste or a new and improved Brylcreem
  (now formulated for your pets and guaranteed to make a difference)

                                             PLEASE NOTE:
A child's wish or question should be disqualified due to the lack
of subtext and connived distortion to pre-fashion the desired answer
                                                or result
                   (It's hard to trick youth when it is too young)

The space between burial plots
is reserved to bury the mental oozings
of wishers and questioners
and the ceremonies are to be torchlit processions
                                               marching
                                            back
       ­                                 into
                           ­               rotting
                                          ­      cemeteries
                                      near darkened woods
                                 on the edge of civilizations
              where truth sleeps in the above-mentioned shallow graves
                                            and those sneaky spaces
                                                          ­      in
                                                        ­  between

There are caves and mines below,
                                                      you know
                 encroached and heavily toothed
                 with stalactites
                 and stalagmites
                 of stalac-rights
                 and stalag-wrongs
                 of revivalist lies
                 pouring over stone fangs
                 chomping down on any remaining truth
                 amid blackened deceit
                 fought with limp-wristed efforts
                 by feigning reason
                 and pale blue innocence
                 which always clouds up the lovely prejudice in play
                 with silly attempts to appear decent


Do wishes petrify
or just hold very still under glass
to not frighten the proctors
or their undeveloped wards
                                                  in hoards
                                                          ­      on field trips?

The secret to making wishes come true is hidden in the puzzle:

                    K         R          O          W

                    R                   ­                 O
                                     UOY
                    O                                    R

 ­                   W         O           R          K
                                         #
                  > unscramble and despair <

The current judges always remain unmoved
                                 unimpressed
                      uncaring
and refuse to blow out the candles
until the day that someone judges THEM
in all prejudice and bias of the mind
of good and proper scale bearers
and compromised judges
just wishing for dignified approval

What might the answer be
when a foolish soul, surrounded in questions, asks,
"Does anyone have change for a parent?
It seems I only have a single father to my name."

"I have two career choices in the arts, so I can break him."
           is the reply
"No,"
            answeres the hopeful.
"I need four erroneous opinions to fit into his ear
or the machinery doesn't grind to a complete halt.
Doesn't anyone have the proper change?"

Someone must always sit on the low end
of the teeter-totter of wishes

Won't anyone play with me?
I wish someone would
I need contra-ballast
if only to assuage my conscience

Somebody?
Somebody?
Anybody?
                                   Is no one disappointed in a parent?
                                   Is everyone here made of stone?
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                 Building a Fence and Smoking Cigarettes

I passed two men who were building a fence
Cigarettes on their lips, work-stained old hats
Spirit level, carpenter square, calculations
The morning frost hard-worked into honest sweat

I passed two men who were building a fence
Its posts and rails strong-muscled into place
And hammered against the autumn hurricanes
With nails of steel, extruded steel, bright steel

I passed two men who were building a fence
With hands and tools and strength and uncommon sense
A poem is itself.
Serious intent to read
latest issue of TIME magazine
found attention pleasantly distracted,
when I became keenly aware
of flora and fauna bursting,

blooming, buzzing, and twittering
oblivious to yours truly sitting stock still
in folding lawn chair
marveling at each budding
natural born architect and engineer

each respective constituent
living organism engrossed
delicate as deft potters crafting chinaware
observing good and
plenti hive nesting reverential species
trumpeting suave and donning debonair

without any pretentious fanfare
merely obedient to genetic coded wear,
exclusive domain glorified, ordained,
and sanctified by divine imprimatur
contemplating if despair

experienced by coterie of biosphere
not including **** sapiens,
and/or aghast that their extinction
dooms them to disappear,
which undeserved fate unfair

for innocent animals and plants
critically contributing as
unique vital gadgeteer
linkedin to significant role
evolution indiscriminately licensed

met with preserved concord, versus mutineer
extant among bipedal hominids
each and every simian forebear
generally recent primate ancestors,
whose short lifespans predated medicare,

but more particularly modern man/woman,
who flagrantly extracted precious
minerals, plundered mountains,
usurped possibly, sans sadling muleteer

and/or forced chaingang extruded
raw materials to concoct wear
able, munitions, disposable,
and most importantly

deadly ordnance for ****** warfare,
never quenching thirst for mortal Kombat,
nor scooping up riches galore,
no matter wealthy status equals bajillionaire!
Hands down the most dramatic change ever needed to make the most profound impact awoke from helping beget the first offspring. An internal paradigm shift reshuffled priorities such that the helpless newborn necessitated immediate attention.
     Whatever task held my attention at a given time, the cry of said progeny triggered and quickly trained an obligation to become a first responder of sorts.
     Yes, I readily admit that at first blush selflessness grudgingly accepted, but quickly an avid enthusiasm became manifest.
    Matter of fact (and much to the surprise to this chap who never served as caretaker for infants, nor young children), an instinctual natural protection arose concomitantly with attention, affection, and adoration as the ensuing years tending (to thine eldest daughter and approximately twenty six plus months later another heiress begat), this role of fatherhood entranced, galvanized, and inspired me toward increased selflessness.
     The overpowering raw emotional of first time fatherhood emotional, financial, and spiritual impact shook my entire corporeal being to experience supreme tenderness, which set me to step up affinity to write (poetry seemed a natural modus operandi de jure, which sample seems apropos to share at this juncture.    
     Though thee empty nest syndrome long since elapsed, I happened upon thee following verse while scrolling along memory lane recording incipient onset of parenthood, when the missus underwent routine planned parenthood in College approximately two score and eight earth orbitz ago late March/early April ninety ninty six.

December 22nd 1996 bundle of edenic joy

Twenty seven years plus ago
faux cap’n Matthew Scott
twittered n burst with ahoy
on account of thine first borne –
unbeknownst to us then if a girl or boy
so an unusual assortment
of gender appropriate names –
(some brazen others coy
others an utter embarassment
verbal remonstration our offspring

especially when older, would deploy)
filled pages of our journals, viz
newly minted parent’s endless employ
though of Semitic ancestry choices
per namesake reflected more ova goy
which genealogy less significant
than precious progeny healthily fused
vis a vis via being masterfully charged
two sets regarding
twenty three pairs of chromosomes
that did miraculously alloy

into a healthy genetically whipped miracle –
crème of the crop
that only imaginary dragons
reigning over a vampire weeknd
with fiery red hot
chili peppered lyrics could drop,
whereby flute tour ring notes
induced crowdsource to hip hop
calisthenics that emulated
swishing brush strokes of a mop

which if attempted by myself,
would witness one culled sic pop
so, he sticks with ranks, viz his literate
*** spur ray shun to confess
those thermostatic and
temperature controlled emotions more or less
extolling occasions that held poignancy,
though as a first time father
my state of managing a newborn
felt chaotic and a sorry mess

though words resonated less
gifted with beautiful daughter,
she most likely happened
to be oblivious asper YES
mine hand felt hogtied,
yet over ensuing years –
the integration characterizing  
Rites of (aiding) spring  
our suite firebird
did indelibly impress

an invaluable psychic ring,
whereby initial awkward role
no longer on par
to foster teaching child
autonomy for her existence,
(albeit demanding at times –
synonymous with any other
infantile pang), thine essence
acquired an acute attentiveness
to her basic needs and wants

likened and linkedin to pay obeisance
per a special offering,
whose absence and permanent separation
as a responsible grown woman
makes mine heart didst grow fond
(and psyche doth twinge
with nostalgia) asper
those long day's journey
into night, when I could attest
she declared  and constituted

daddy's girl, yet mandatory
to let go of this biological offshoot
part of me (within human league
to the  babyhood, childhood,
and emerging adulthood
attended, mollycoddled, pampered
she extruded, and had me
wrapped around her little finger
cuz, now perhaps happiness sprung
from within herself

she sought guiding light
as days of our live sped by at lightspeed
now, a mixed bag of emotions wrestle and roil
inside mine corporeal being,
I praised and prized accomplishments
(rarely admonished)
spurred by natural borne desires
for potential Atalanta,
(who loved running until an injury
brought said passion to screeching halt),

nevertheless she became independent
rather than shutter herself up
as exemplified by das papa,
who still writhes, seethes, and orates
many forfeited explorations
of natural self discovery thwarted
renting my psyche asunder
with lightning mailer daemons
still on the prowl
and trawling like bot size internet trolls

within the windmills of my mind
essentially futilely explaining
mein kampf and hard times
impressionable years of emotional,
financial, interpersonal and social toil
repercussions forever unfairly induced
upon the darling lass
pronounced upon this star student,
who suffered sheer agony
when asked – by classmates -  
the vocations of me “Herr father

or Frau mother,” neither gainfully employed,
which vicarious taboo
(county assistance still evokes stigma,
particularly for outliers like us
living social along MainLine)
zapped, tortured, inflicted
crisis nearly destroyed yours truly,
cuz of utter embarrassment, misery,
writhing really vociferously
within genetic blend, whose love
not asked for nor sought unequivocally.
The Fire Burns Aug 2017
Skeletons of our consumerism
tossed aside the road,
wasted wrappings of trees
and extruded petroleum,
to forever reside
in landfills cemetery.
Late afternoon October 15th, 2022
a spring like day
witnessed nature in surround sound,
whereby reflection spurred
reminiscence about similar weather
a few years ago when...

Serious intent to read
latest issue of TIME magazine
found attention pleasantly distracted,
when I became keenly aware
of flora and fauna bursting,

blooming, buzzing, and twittering
oblivious to yours truly sitting stock still
in folding lawn chair
marveling at each budding
natural born architect and engineer

each respective constituent
living organism engrossed
delicate as deft potters crafting chinaware
observing good and
plenti hive nesting reverential species
trumpeting suave and donning debonair

without any pretentious fanfare
merely obedient to genetic coded wear,
exclusive domain glorified, ordained,
and sanctified by divine imprimatur
contemplating if despair

experienced by coterie of biosphere
not including **** sapiens,
and/or aghast that their extinction
dooms them to disappear,
which undeserved fate unfair

for innocent animals and plants
critically contributing as
unique vital gadgeteer
linkedin to significant role
evolution indiscriminately licensed

met with preserved concord, versus mutineer
extant among bipedal hominids
each and every simian forebear
generally recent primate ancestors,
whose short lifespans predated medicare,

but more particularly modern man/woman,
who flagrantly extracted precious
minerals, plundered mountains,
usurped possibly, sans sadling muleteer

and/or forced chaingang extruded
raw materials to concoct wear
able, munitions, disposable,
and most importantly

deadly ordnance for ****** warfare,
never quenching thirst for mortal Kombat,
nor scooping up riches galore,
no matter wealthy status equals bajillionaire!
Katherine e Mar 2020
She was Obsidian

but she longed to be diamond
to be mused upon and praised
to be called beauty
to live unyieldingly, unbreakable
to be sought after and desired


but she was dark and hardened
jagged and sharp
extruded from a rupture in the earth
birthed from heat and ash
she was raw and true
and she was breakable.

she was obsidian

— The End —